


Another's Arms

by Everlind



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Heartbreak, a very angry Shishido
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting someone you love, go, can tear you apart. But sometimes there's someone else to reach back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

There's a certain expression.  
  
 _This is the worst day of my life._  
  
  
If anything, out of the whole crapload of feelings he's experiencing, that is the very least of it.  
  
Shishido sloshes the vibrant green liquid around in his glass, makes it kiss the rim. He doesn't even know what the hell he is drinking. Only that it tastes like absolute crap and that he's going to keep drinking the shit until he finds out whether it really is possible to 'drown your sorrows' in alcohol.  
  
Everybody knows you can't.  
  
But that isn't going to stop him from trying.  
  
The party is too… party-ish. There's dancing, grinding, lots of skin, hands where they do not belong and sure, it's a club, so what does he expect? But, even though he never expected that one day he'd have to admit this, he much more prefers for Atobe to throw his parties the usual style: over-the-top, obnoxious and snobby.  
  
Not this.  
  
Yes, the club is upper-class and beyond chique. But the fact that the people groping each other on the dance floor are all people he  _knows_ , kinda spoils the fun. Not to mention the one person out there who is not… not… Just not.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
Shishido scowls at his drink, jaw clenching until it aches, before taking yet another vengeful swallow of it.  
  
Yuck.  
  
Horrible.  
  
What  _is_  this stuff, anyway? It burns all the way down his throat, falls into the empty pit of his stomach and settles there to fester. Maybe the fact that the megane-wearing bartender with wayward spiky hair looked familiar, should have put him on alert. On the other hand, he doesn't want to be alert. He wants to be so utterly stupefied with booze that he can pass as any other slap-happy -or in his current position- melancholic drunk.  
  
He doesn't want to feel.  
  
Or think.  
  
Or be.  
  
Or anything.  
  
Blank.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Please.  
  
He takes another swallow of the glass, nearly gags on it.  
  
Fuck, why does he have to be such a goddamned pussy of a lightweight? Each bob of his throat to force the liquid down feels like there's a wad of cotton being shoved into his brains. Everything goes fuzzy, as promised, thank you, but it doesn't go  _away_.  
  
When will it go away?  
  
Three more swallows?  
  
Three more glasses?  
  
Three more bottles?  
  
Fuck.  
  
Make this stop.  
  
Please.  
  
Yes, he's not the very bested and kindest and selfless person out there. Hell, he knows this. Honestly. But what has he ever done to deserve this? Yes, he's not sweet and squishy and full of happy, rainbow-colored, skittle feelings, but surely he doesn't deserve  _this_?  
  
And even if the reason of  _this_ , the source of it, turns out -after all- to be  _wrong_  (against the law of the Gods, whatever, or even more basic, the laws of nature), even then, has he ever done anything in his own favor to egg his wrongness along the desired path? Has he ever taken advantage of it?  
  
But then he thinks of a few so, so, so precious, but so, so, so painfully rare moments: of arms around him, or of a smile that goes beyond the standard, of moving together on a court as though they were one entity bleeding into each other, of sneaking a peek when they were changing in the clubrooms years ago, of even sleeping in the same bed together and waking up with his nose pressed against the side of a neck…  
  
Is that why?  
  
Shishido pressed his hand against his eyes, takes another deep gulp.  
  
Is that really so wrong of him?  
  
Does he really deserve to feel as though the little spider-line of a crack in his heart is finally splitting, widening,  _breaking_  into a ravine of heartache?  
  
Is it as bad for a girl when she realizes that the  _only_  boy she'll ever love won't ever love her  _back_? Or visa versa, of course.  
  
It must be.  
  
Why ever else the hell do people write so much awful songs and poetry about it, then?  
  
Yeah. Though, to be honest, Shishido doesn't really feel like writing poetry or crooning songs accompanied to the strumming of an acoustic guitar. More like kicking people's faces, really. Or, failing that, drinking this foul concoction until his brains start to leak out his ears.  
  
Yes please.  
  
Okay, one more swallow.  
  
One, two, three:  _kampai!_  
  
God, fuck shitting YUCK. Who invented this stuff?  
  
And how childish is it of him, really, to wish for the source of his misery to notice the… er,  _misery_. You know. His pain. Even though some long-repressed, noble voice (his conscience? Hey, where the hell has  _that_  been all these years?) informs him sagely that this is what he  _doesn't_  want, even when he feels like he does and even prattles on to tell him that he so  _does_  want his One True Love (that doesn't love him back) to be happy. Despite feeling like taking the whirring blades of a vegetable mixer to the object of  _his_  object of affection affections. Or something.  
  
Whatever.  
  
Basically: please drop dead, you goddamn bitch, thanks.  
  
Only not really.  
  
But kinda yes, really.  
  
Fuck, he doesn't know.  
  
Not anymore.  
  
Hence the self-enforced drinking. So, about that, let's take another gulp, then.  _One… two..._  
  
"Shishido-san!"  
  
Shishido jumps, chokes and snorts up green liquid through his nose. And, of course, proceeds with all but dying all over the little table he has commandeered. In a decidedly lame, not to mention thoroughly unsexy, manner.  
  
Joy.  
  
"Sorry, sorry!"  
  
Warm hands pat his back until the spitting cough subsides and ease on to rub between his shoulder blades as he gasps for alcohol-free air.  
  
"Don't creep up on me like that!" Shishido wheezes, clutching at his windpipe which burns with the aftermath of alcohol going down the wrong way.  
  
"Sorry!" Choutarou repeats yet again and disengages to lean against the high table at which Shishido is perching. After all, his hip is high enough to prop against the edge, if Shishido tried that, he'd look like a right idiot (and probably go on to flop underneath the table). Hence the barstool. And to be honest after the x-amount of… of… whatever the hell it is in his glass, standing is no longer a safe option.  
  
Choutarou is peering at him. In the tacky, multi-colored strobe lights, his cross winks blue, red, green, white silver, blue. His eyes flicker in tandem, but mostly stay as they are supposed to be: dark.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks.  
  
Shishido massages his temple. He's starting to hallucinate. Choutarou sounded almost… eager. No,  _hopeful_. He sounded hopeful. As though he wanted Shishido's answer to be a miserable 'no, I feel awful'.  
  
But that does not make any sense.  
  
Choutarou doesn't thrive on other people's pain or jealousy or whatever it is that Shishido himself (awful, yes, he knows, alright?) sometimes gets his kicks off. Through even then only with people he abhors. Never his best friend.  
  
Because, in the horridly honest end, yes, fucking yes, he does want Choutarou to be happy. Even if that is with a woman and not… not… Just not.  
  
"I'm fine," he says. "So. Did you…" he mentions with his glass into the general direction of Miki, slopping green stuff over his fingers.  
  
Not too far from them, Miki is dancing with Hiyoshi, her best friend's boyfriend.  
  
Man. What a happy fucking family, right? Miki and Kiki (and, please, please shoot me, please, their names even  _rhyme_!), best friends since kindergarden, have both hooked up with Hiyoshi and Ohtori, also best friends since kindergarden (and their names almost rhyme).  
  
How idyllic. When they start poppin' out kids they can all get together and have a jolly damn pick-nick, or watch each other's brats while they have a well deserved day of catching-up-on-the-neglected-sex-life planned. And even better, there's about a seventy-five percent chance that one couple will have a boy and the other couple a girl, which will grow up to fall as gloriously in love with one other as both their parents did and end up marrying all over again.  
  
Nice.  
  
Fan-effing-tastic.  
  
Really.  
  
He's happy for Choutarou.  
  
He  _is_.  
  
If you ignore the part where he wants to pick up his barstool and brain Miki. And, at this point, Choutarou. Because, honestly,  _how thick can you GET?!_  
  
Not that Miki isn't a nice broad, or anything. She is. She's spanking' perfect. Really. Sexy and smart, rare combination indeed. He'd adore her, probably. If she hadn't had the fucking nerve to cheerfully throw his only chance at happiness back in his face, trampling on it on the way out. No matter if she doesn't realize this.  
  
No, he is not overreacting.  
  
No, he is not over-dramatizing.  
  
He's twenty-six.  
  
He's (thank God) grown beyond that.  
  
And that's simply how it  _is_.  
  
  
He loves Choutarou.  
  
But Choutarou doesn't love him.  
  
  
"No," Choutarou says, fiddling with his own fingers, his hair, his lower lip and finally his cross. "No, I haven't."  
  
Shishido scoffs. "Why ever the hell not?" he answers, and tries for a playful snicker (that sort of is a sob and a hysteric hiccup, but whatever). "If you want me to be your best man at any sort of wedding, not to mention  _this year_ , you had better be falling down on your knees to propose asap. Right?"  
  
"I know, I know," Choutarou mutters.  
  
They don't look at each other.  
  
Shishido, carefully neutral, stares at his drink, long and blank, before tossing the more than half-full glass back. After the auto-gag reaction subsides, he says all nice and cool, "So what gives? It is…" -he looks at his watch- "half past two in the morning. Time's running out, Choutarou."  
  
The pause that follows is too long.  
  
Strobe lights flare and swing in mindless patterns, supposedly to the beat of the music. On the floor, couples dance. Sweaty faces press together to kiss, hands explore. Meaningful glances are exchanged. Somewhere in the middle of it should be Atobe, with his own darling girl. Because this is supposed to be their last 'wild' party. Or something. The point is that this is a celebration, of sorts, because Atobe proposed to her a week ago. And his dear Choutarou, apparently, took inspiration from that and is planning to propose himself tonight. But not after having had a crash-course of stressing over it at Shishido's little flat, tap-dancing on his heart the whole way through the conversation, only to finish it off by giving it a flying kick out through the window into some trash can outside by asking ' _you'll be my best man, won't you, please?_ '. And Shishido smiled and nodded and said ' _of course, I'd love to_ ' and as soon as he got Choutarou shepherded out of the door, he'd merrily skipped off to puke his guts out into the toilet.  
  
Not a big day for him.  
  
But it is supposed to be a big day for Atobe, at least. All Shishido knows is that Atobe is either wearing way too much leather, or way too little of it. He's not quite figured that paradox out yet. Choutarou is dressed nice. White shirt and black slacks. Neat and flattering. Just as Shishido likes him. Shishido's greatest effort towards 'dressing up' involved putting on his least faded jeans and a black button-up… as though he was attending a semi-casual western style funeral.  
  
Nevertheless, Shishido manages (go his half- inebriated brain!) to drag his eyes away from the V of skin bared around the familiar cross and up to Choutarou's face. There he sees something he cannot read, something alien and strange.  
  
"What?" he prompts, worried. "What is it?"  
  
Choutarou looks back down on him. His eyes seem blank, but they are not. His mouth trembles. "I'm not sure if I'm ready," he says.  
  
Goddamn him.  
  
Does he have to force Shishido to do this? Does he? Rubbing salt into his bleeding wounds and all? Fucking bastard.  
  
But Shishido is the hell-bend on being the bested of best friends there can be, if he can't… can't… Just can't.  
  
So he says: "You are." He manages to wrangle a smile onto his lips. "You told me you are. Heck, you made it a really fucking eight wonder of the world to pick out a ring for her. That's how ready you are."  
  
Choutarou makes a wry, shy face.  
  
"Don't make me go out there with a folded note that says: 'Do you want to marry me, love Choutarou' and a ring Sellotaped to my forehead."  
  
As intended, Choutarou laughs and for a split-second they are back in middle school and the world is spread out at their feet for them to conquer. But then the moment passes, or it does for Shishido at least, like a kick in the kidneys, because Choutarou answers, "You're right. Sorry. It's just- just. This is such a-"  
  
"A really fucking big deal," Shishido finishes for him, his voice going raw and quiet until it even fails to carry over the loud throb of trash they call music.  
  
"Yes," Choutarou says. "Yes. Thank you."  
  
Shishido laughs. Cold and harsh, but it bleeds into a throaty chuckle with the melody.  
  
"No problem," he answers, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Go get 'er, tiger."  
  
Choutarou blushes and laughs a little and almost leaves. Almost, but not even a decent step towards his future and he turns back to ask yet again, "Are you alright?'  
  
It is in that moment that Shishido feels that final crack, so strangely vivid, though he knows his heart is still beating. He half expects to open his mouth and see bright red and blue-black gore gobble out of it to re-fill his empty glass, and then down over the front of his shirt, to spill on his knees, to finally slither down the ground, steaming.  
  
He feels that and says, "Never better."  
  
Choutarou leaves.  
  
Shishido watches him go. But does not watch him walk up to Miki.  
  
He's not that masochistic.  
  
Instead he stares back at the elegant flute of glass, and wonders why a) it is not spilling over with intestines and b) why he can't cry.  
  
***  
  
It's generously past three in the morning when Shishido can finally safely conclude that, no, drowning your sorrows is a myth.  
  
Usually, when having consumed a moderate amount of alcohol, Shishido is the uninhibited drunk. He remembers with painful clarity how he once dared to plant a big sloppy one on Choutarou's cheek, when he was like that. But it is a delicate balance. Just one or two swallows too much… and he tips into sheer over-emotional. And that can mean being either very happy, or very pissed off. Seeing as he is not exactly the most cheerful trick of the party right this moment, this means that he is not doing very well.  
  
Barely keeping it together, actually.  
  
Heartbreak does not pass after a few deep breaths (or a whole other bottle of green ick).  
  
It builds and rots from within, until he is bend over the table in honest to God physical pain.  
  
Now he no longer wishes for Choutarou's concern, his interest, his attention. Anything but. If he were to walk up to Shishido right now and ask in that wonderful voice: 'what is wrong, Shishido-san?' he'd shatter and spill it all in its monstrous glory. Probably beg on top of it.  
  
Despite that risk, he can't leave. Because he is either too drunk to stand (but he doubts that), or in too much agony to move (more likely). He feels like throwing up all the time, but not the alcohol, but his everything else, until he's a glibbery inside-out mass slithering away.  
  
How much longer can this night last?  
  
Hasn't it been enough?  
  
Isn't there someone here who knows him enough to  _see_  and cares enough to do something about it? Like stopping the world so he has a moment to get his act together? Anyone?  
  
But no, everybody is otherwise engaged. And if they know and care, they all know there is nothing they can do to ease his pain. Not a fucking thing.  
  
Damn it. He doesn't even know whether Choutarou popped the big question yet, because he hasn't been back since he left. Does that mean he did and they went off to indulge in some glorious happiness-induced sexing against the wall of some back alley? God, no please. No, yes, he should be thinking yes and be all happy, but how can he be when he-  
  
"Alright, Mr. Cheerful, let's go before your face breaks. Or the universe"  
  
Shishido manages to lift his head, blinks.  
  
Oshitari looks back at him.  
  
"I can't," Shishido hears himself, miraculously, say quite clearly: "I have to stay. I have to be here for… for…"  
  
 _…for Choutarou. Who doesn't need me, not really. But just in case. If he needed me, whatever way._  
  
There's a shattering silence, even if the music plays on and people laugh and make love. "You've done enough," Oshitari murmurs, looking sadder than he has any right to.  
  
"No," Shishido repeats, firmly. "No."  
  
What if Choutarou does require him to trot up to Miki with a folded note and a rock of a diamond taped to his forehead?  
  
He can't leave.  
  
He can't-  
  
"Enough, Ryou," Oshitari repeats, as firm as him. "Let's go."  
  
  
They go.  
  
***  
  
"Steady there," Oshitari says, grabbing his shoulder before he can take a tumble into some bristly looking bushes. "How much did you have?"  
  
"Not nearly enough," Shishido mutters.  
  
"With your body mass you'd get drunk after a thimble of sake," Oshitari tells him. "But I think I saw you work down one or two bottles of that home-brew. Which was disgusting. And possibly lethal."  
  
"Not lethal enough," Shishido bounces back, before allowing Oshitari to sling his arm over his shoulders, keeping him up. "And shut up, Yuushi, or do I need to mention that one time where we did those movie marathons at your place and it ended up just being the two of us and  _you_  got drunk after one glass of wine?"  
  
Oshitari chuckles, low and deep. Shishido can feel the rumble of it against the underside of his arm and where they're plastered against each other, tickling his ribcage.  
  
"Hush hush," Oshitari shushes him. "Let the world go on thinking I am a complete stud that can drink them all under the table."  
  
They sway, lurch sideways as they try to avoid a little concrete pole at the corner of a street and end up stumbling into a wall together. Since they're there they decide to slump against it.  
  
Shishido hangs on to Oshitari, because the street is doing this really odd zig-zagging thing, stones shifting and trees bouncing. He wishes it would stop. "Psah, everybody knows Kabaji is the stud who drinks everybody under the table."  
  
"Point." Oshitari concedes. And then goes on to ruin it all by asking, "Are you alright, Ryou?"  
  
Did he mention he tended towards being over-emotional when drunk? Either very happy and complacent or very pissed off and shitting fireballs? Yeah.  
  
"Shut  _up_.  _Shut_  up. I'm fine. So shut the hell up. Alright?" he snarls and wrenches away from the steadying warmth, tripping a few paces away and staying on his feet purely by virtue of the wall next to him. He leans against it, pressing the side of his face against the cold stones, knowing it is gross and sticky, but liking the coolness.  
  
He feels like tipping his head back and screaming.  
  
"You don't sound fine," Oshitari remarks from a few meters to the left of him.  
  
"SHUT UP!" he yells, whirling towards him and knowing that he is truly ugly in that moment: face red, spit flying, eyes wide and insane. "You. don't. know. fuck. shit! Alright? I didn't ask you to come and stick your nose in my business and I didn't ask you to come along. LEAVE. I want you  _gone_!"  
  
"You can scream and make an idiot of yourself all you want, Ryou," Oshitari says calmly, legs and arms crossed, leaning against the wall casual as you please. "But I'm not leaving."  
  
"YOU ASSHOLE!" he shrieks, sounding like an hysterical maid. "Why won't you just  _leave_? Fuck. Am I not allowed to even… even have this? Fuck."  
  
And as soon as it came, it goes, and Shishido tips away from Oshitari to stare forwards blindly. His throat burns, but the urge to scream has gone. Instead he'd like to crumple to the ground, knowing he'd never have to wake up again.  
  
Not having to wake up to a day of Choutarou asking him where he was and then telling him about Miki saying yes and then making him stand up for him at an alter. He can't do this any more. Who's he kidding? He's not strong enough.  
  
He puts his hands over his face and whispers into his palms, "I can't do this."  
  
They're both silent for a long time. Shishido doesn't quite manage to pull himself together, keeps wondering how he'll face Choutarou tomorrow and pat him on the back at a proposal well done.  
  
Oshitari does the right thing: he leaves him be. If he'd tried to comfort him right that moment, Shishido would've kicked his arse up and down the street, drunk or not.  
  
"Atobe is having a western style marriage," Oshitari says suddenly.  
  
Shishido lifts a hand to look at him, because  _jah du'h_  everybody and their dog knows that.  
  
"He asked me to be his best man," Oshitari adds.  
  
For a moment Shishido does not manage to soak up the relevance of that piece of information, does not connect the dots. Because  _of course_  Atobe would ask Oshitari, of course he would, as Yuushi is Atobe's best… friend.  
  
Oh God.  
  
"Fuck," Shishido says when he gets it.  
  
"Quite," Oshitari agrees. "So I do understand, you know."  
  
He would, probably. Shishido just wishes he wouldn't be so wonderfully cool and calm about it, while he is reduced to a wreck of a man, barely fit to call 'homo sapien'. On the other hand, the fact that he does not collapse they way he is doing must mean he can't possibly love Atobe the way he loves Choutarou. It can't. Because how can he not want to scream and rage and hurt things if he's feeling the same as Shishido is, slowly disintegrating into strips of himself and yet not dying.  
  
And then Yuushi says, "Fuck," and covers his face, too.  
  
Well.  
  
They've both been royally fucked over.  
  
He contemplates the irony of the whole situation, before his slower than slow 'other people's emotions'-radar picks up the signals of distress coming rom his left.  
  
Oshitari's shoulders heave and his breath catches.  
  
"Oh, shit, Yuushi. Don't," he mumbles, even beyond feeling embarrassed in Oshitari's stead. Just stupid and insensitive. "Don't fucking start crying on me, man. I don't know how to… oh hell."  
  
It is already too late.  
  
Damn Oshitari. Isn't he the 'man who can close off his heart' on the court, huh? Can't he close it off  _now_? Not to mention his tear ducts?! He's always been the unreadable one, kind outwardly while being not. At least to those he doesn't give a toss about. The most emotion he ever saw from him was during the match against Momoshiro, way back when. The rest of the time he was a mirror, bouncing your own emotions back in your face and making you feel like a complete tool. Or maybe only Shishido got that impression. Of course there's the crying over romances thing, but that kinda falls into the category of Hiyoshi's UFOs and Kabaji's knitting.  
  
But it seems where Shishido becomes a ugly son of a bitch filled with pent up pain-induced rage, Oshitari becomes a crybaby. To each their own and all.  
  
"Yuushi, just… don't," he mutters, wondering if this is the part where he stumbles over to give him a manly if bracing pat on the shoulder. But that would mean having to possibly come into contact with the crying part and Shishido has no clue what to do about the crying part.  
  
Yet it is impossible, even for him, to just stand there when Oshitari starts to weep for real, very softly and barely audible, but very wretchedly genuine. Especially when he does understand Shishido, truly, and didn't mind Shishido going ugly on him. The very least he should offer is the same, right? He can do that. With a sigh, he pushes away from the wall.  
  
"C'mon, man, get it together," he says as softly, as kindly as he can while he touches Oshitari's shoulder.  
  
Oshitari doesn't answer. He shivers a little and his breath creeps out in hot gust between the cracks of his fingers. Shishido can smell the salt of tears and sweat.  
  
It's is chilly outside, in a nice way. Tokyo's light pollution eats up all the stars, but the few that are left cluster bright against the dark backdrop. The end of summer is in the air with a warm undertone to the crisp nip of the night, but autumn is just around the corner. It's a beautiful night, Shishido realizes, and wonders how that fails to make sense.  
  
The world should be coming to an end. It should stop and take notice of their misery and keep still until someone finds a solution to make everything alright again.  
  
But it doesn't work like that. The whole city goes on. In the buildings around them are people eating, sleeping, drinking, taking a crap, talking, laughing, making love, fighting and killing each other. Babies are being born and people are dying. There was a rule to that last, even… something that went like: every so many seconds a baby is born and every so many seconds someone dies. He can't remember the exact numbers, only that it was under ten and hard to wrap his mind around.  
  
And worst of that all is that not only the city is brimming with all this, but the whole damn world and universe to the boot.  
  
So it is just him and Oshitari with too much heartbreak between the two of them that can never be fixed.  
  
Suddenly it is not so hard to put his arms properly around Oshitari.  
  
He doesn't mind when Oshitari unfolds like a damp rag to snake his arms around him in a tight vice and he doesn't mind the wet face dropping against the skin of his neck. He doesn't mind the tears and the snot, probably, and doesn't mind that he's holding the most outwardly dispassionate of his friends while he's crying his eyes out.  
  
And he's even feeling quite sober, to the boot.  
  
Well, damn.  
  
He lets Oshitari's tears runs their course.  
  
It takes a long time.  
  
Shishido wonders if he even let himself cry since Atobe told him, or before that, when he realized that the feelings would always go unanswered or whether Oshitari was too proud to even allow himself this in the privacy of his own bedroom, hidden under the darkness of his covers. Shishido knows he did. Cry. Alone.  
  
They generate too much body-heat between them. The hair at the back of his neck is growing damp and so is the shoulder and neck of his shirt, where Oshitari is resting his face. Shishido is fairly calm, his mind is clear. In his arms, he can feel Oshitari grow exhausted with the outspill of tears and violent emotions. The awful hitches subside until he is just leaning into Shishido, until the tears just leak from his eyes without effort. Shishido fingercombs a little, trying to be soothing, and wonders where they'll go from here on.  
  
And then Oshitari lifts his head.  
  
Kisses him.  
  
  
Shishido supposed that this, at least, makes sense.  
  
***  
  
He doesn't think he's ever been as nervous as he is now.  
  
Nervous enough his hands shake.  
  
He's never done this before with someone he knows so well, but isn't dating. Especially not with someone about whom he's never had that 'yes please' kind of tickle in his belly. It's Oshitari. He's a friend.  
  
But his friend currently has his tongue in Shishido's mouth and is effectively sandwiching him between the some random wall and his body.  
  
"Your place or mine?" Oshitari mumbles.  
  
Shishido hits him over the head. "I can't believe you just asked me that. Fuck, talk about cliché-"  
  
Oshitari kisses him to shut him up. "Sorry. Mine, then. Closer."  
  
Shishido is not quite ready to let go, hangs on to his wits for as long as he'll have them. Not long, he thinks, not if Oshitari is really lowering his mouth to kiss his neck- oh. He is. Damn it.  
  
"Wait! I've got to, in the morning, Kuri and-" he manages to splutter.  
  
"We'll go and feed your dog in the morning, don't worry," Oshitari says.  
  
"Okay," Shishido nods. Squirms. "Okay."  
  
"Ryou."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Relax."  
  
"How the hell do you want me to relax? We're in the middle of the street!"  
  
So Oshitari does as suggested and takes Shishido back to his place.  
  
***  
  
It takes Oshitari about ten minutes to finally pry his metaphorical fingers loose from the death-grip on his already addled wits.  
  
And he does it by -this time slowly and gently- backing Shishido up against the first available wall of his apartment and kissing him.  
  
Shishido is a sucker for kissing (with or without pun, as you prefer).  
  
Especially if they are a-fucking-mazing kisses.  
  
Which they are.  
  
One part that surrounds the myth surrounding Oshitari's various 'prowesses' seems to be true, at long last. He's good. But the part where he's a talented smooth operator and will have you cumming your pants by so much as looking at you is a big lie. Oshitari is painfully human in his arousal. He's warm and, well, sweet even and all wandering tentative caresses over Shishido's body. He's not the dominating sex machine the rumors made him out to be, he's there and kissing and  _asking_  Shishido without words whether his hand here is alright, or whether it is okay for him to brush his knuckles over the skin there.  
  
It's new for him, too.  
  
It's real.  
  
There's no alcohol haze for Shishido any longer, he's there and a bit clumsy while recuperating, but the reality is the wet stained shirt he is wearing, tears soaked into the fabric at his shoulder.  
  
And he'd be lying if he said he didn't want this, too.  
  
It's nice to be wanted, especially after having sat in that dark, dank hole that were his feelings until he was smothered with it and it's nice to be held and kissed. He likes the warmth of Oshitari, the lanky body against his, and likes the loud  _doki doki_ answer of a heart against his own.  
  
Maybe he's kinda glad it is Oshitari.  
  
And, alright, fine, the 'yes please' that was missing earlier is curling up sharply and insistently now in the pit of his being.  
  
Okay. Alright, he's getting really damn turned on.  
  
The apartment is dark. The small glimpse he got proved it to be messy, in a homey way. Small and cramped, like his own. He's been here before. He's sat on that couch and has even whipped up dinner in the small kitchen. It seems new and exciting now.  
  
Especially when Oshitari picks him up (and okay, he hates that, a lot), but puts Shishido down on the table before he can open his mouth to protest. Then he's standing between his thighs with his hands cupping Shishido's hips and kissing at the corner of his mouth. It puts Shishido at a mere higher slant, but he feels steadier, enough so to reach for Oshitari's face, hold it between his own palms to angle it towards his own.  
  
Oshitari's lips are warm and moist and swollen. He touches them parted against Shishido's and breathes him in for a moment, moving them in tiny left-right-left caresses. Just like that, an open mouth exhaling hot against his own, the wet insides of lips slicking over his now and then and two hands gripping bruises into his hips. When he does drag his lips closed, nipping Shishido's in the progress, they both gasp and Oshitari betrays himself by pulling Shishido nearly off the table as those hands haul him closer so he can grind against him.  
  
Oshitari is hard against the cradle of his legs. Hard against him. For him.  
  
It does the trick.  
  
Shishido groans, just a little, and hitches his hips up, in response.  
  
That makes Oshitari inhale and draw his mouth away with a sticky sound, moving his hands up to unbutton Shishido's shirt. In that small pause Shishido realizes vaguely that his mobile phone is vibrating itself apart in his jeans pocket, over and over. He takes it out and doesn't look, pushing it away from him on the table.  
  
Not now.  
  
There's someone needing him in a much more pleasant way than to deliver him a scolding over the phone.  
  
And then his shirt comes off.  
  
Oshitari looks at him for a moment, eyes dark and appreciative, smoothing the hand that is not holding the damp shirt up and down Shishido's ribs. Then he drops it, the fabric a whisper on the floor and it is as though someone has waved a flag shouting: 'ready, set, GO!'  
  
They tear into each other.  
  
Shishido finds out that Oshitari is not only warm and sweet, but also very forward and kind of dirty, after all. He has no qualms about sucking at Shishido's nipples or palming his hand, hard, against the bulge in Shishido's pants, pressing the ridge of the zipper into his already aching erection. So Shishido doesn't hold back, fisting his fingers into Oshitari's hair, moving his head to an angle so it stops feeling good and starts being amazing. He enjoys the sensation of Oshitari's tongue and lips and teeth on him, at his neck and chest and going back to his nipples over and over until they ache, while his jeans are being undone and drawn down his legs. Oshitari pulls his mouth away, leaving a gleaming wet patch under Shishido's collarbone and drops his head to open his mouth slick and hot over his cock, still trapped in his boxers.  
  
It's rude to push up into that heat, but he's gone on to being downright shameless.  
  
And Oshitari seems to like it like that, too. He smiles and suckles, making the fabric damp with saliva, but lifts his head away before Shishido can embarrass himself. Instead Oshitari kisses him again, and see, he kinda really is dirty, because he's letting him taste himself vaguely on those lips.  
  
"Alright?' Oshitari murmurs.  
  
Shishido gets what he's asking. It's a small miracle he can still feel such a pulse of panicky doubt, even when he's feeling as hot as he is now. It makes no sense. There's nothing left for him to lose, it is all  _gone_. Nothing. If he chickens out now he'll go home and sit alone on his bed with his dog and hurt. And that's how it will be for as long as it takes him, day after day, night after night, until this vast ocean of pain and love has finally dried up, mourned away.  
  
And even then things won't change.  
  
Right here and right now is Oshitari Yuushi, who understands and is hurting, too, and maybe they can meet somewhere in the middle and make it all fade away, if only for a moment.  
  
Fuck, what he wouldn't  _give_  for a moment to make this all fade away, fleeting though that might be.  
  
And hey, what's a more pleasant way to try it by having sex, right? Besides, it has been  _years_  for him. Getting laid is probably the best thing that can happen to him.  
  
"Alright," he murmurs back, lips rocking back on the words, at the same hinting pace his hips inch into Oshitari's.  
  
It's nice, not to mention a real damn turn on when Oshitari can't go the short distance from the living room to bedroom without touching him, even though the apartment is tiny and it barely takes them ten steps. And it's impressive that while he constantly seems to be reaching for Shishido one way or another, he still manages to shed all his clothes by the time they make it to the edge of the bed.  
  
They haven't turned on a single light. It's dark but for the streetlights casting a yellow haze inside through the curtains, hitting the side of Oshitari's body. Well, Shishido's got to hand it to him, he's handsome. In an almost skinny, lanky sort of way, but filled out where matters. His hair is the same as it was in school; half-long to his shoulders and impossibly black. Shishido's hair is the kind of black with a lot of dark brown in it, so that it seems to hang between the two. Oshitari's is the black that has blue highlights. His glasses are gone, too. His eyes seem larger and more vulnerable than they have any right to be.  
  
The absence of skin against his own starts to ache. So he opens his arms and Oshitari steps in them to hold him back, kissing his face, his fluttering eyelids, touching his hair and shoulders.  
  
He's tempted to say something as completely dumb as 'make me forget', but that's not his style and neither is it Oshitari's. So he opts for opening his mouth on Oshitari's collarbone and kiss him there, hard and insistent until his head tips back, baring his throat and compelling Shishido to use his teeth. Which he does, pinching and hard, but not long enough to leave marks, just red imprints that fade when he licks at them. His hands are smoothing down Oshitari's back, who feels strong and solid, until he has the curves of his behind under his palms. He's got a nice ass, too.  
  
And  _that's_  what he tells Oshitari out loud.  
  
Who blinks, before throwing his head back to laugh. And it feels nice to laugh along with him.  
  
Oshitari is his friend and this is alright.  
  
And he's really fucking good-looking, especially when he allows Shishido to push him down on his bed and goes on to watch avidly when Shishido rids himself of his own boxers. Yes, he really loves the dark burn of lust in Oshitari's eyes when he stands naked over him, and he really loves the sight of him on the white sheets, hair a dark splash around his head. And fuck, yes, he loves it that Oshitari is more than dirty enough to curl a hand around his own dick, shamelessly pleasuring himself to egg Shishido on.  
  
It works, but Shishido is stubborn enough to stand and wait, refusing to do anything until he can tell Oshitari's thighs are starting to tremble and his eyes lid with lazy pleasure.  
  
Only then does he say, "Stop," and answers Oshitari's arched brow with a small grin. Then he crawls on the bed, kneels on hands and knees over him, refusing bodily contact. He hovers his face over the man underneath him and smirks. Says, "Hi."  
  
Oshitari swallows, manages a curl of smile. "You are… way too sexy," he answers, voice surprisingly shaky.  
  
It'd be more awesome if that compliment didn't make him blush like a schoolgirl, but yeah, it kinda does and Shishido lowers himself down on him to hide it in the damp tangles of dark hair plastered against Oshitari's neck. Lowering himself means full body-on-body contact, enforced by Shishido's weight and their sweat mingling between them and their erections aligning next to each other, trapped between the hollow of their stomachs.  
  
Oshitari groans, deep and loud, smothering the noise half into Shishido's hair.  
  
Shishido curses, sharp and filthy, feels himself tremble.  
  
It's gone on too long. He wanted to be more, well,  _good_  at this, impress Oshitari maybe with his skills, show him he really is not a prude when it comes down to it. He'd half planned on making his mouth weak and willing, to go down on Oshitari until his back bowed with it. But he's close and desperate and sick of being alone and has had too much heartache lately. And maybe he'll never again wind up with someone in his bed that he trusts the way he trust Oshitari. Or at least not enough to ask this:  
  
"Fuck me?"  
  
Oshitari is quiet for a sharp heartbeat and then chokes out, "If you say that again it won't ever get to that. Ryou, damn, you-"  
  
"Please," Shishido presses, lifting himself up a little so they can look at each other.  
  
"Oh God. You." Oshitari kisses him, sloppy and utterly horny. "You tease. Yes, Fuck,  _yes_. Just stop talking, it does bad things to my self-control."  
  
The he rolls them and Shishido finds that it is really nice to lie under Oshitari like this. He's broader and heavier than he is, but not so he can't hold him. Shishido feels his mouth buzz like a bee sting from being kissed, not used to so much friction after years of nothing. His skin hums and his hands have gone disoriented. There's someone who wants him here and (even better!) likes him and that person is pressing one wrist of his into the mattress next to his head as he moves to kneel between his spread legs. Oshitari keeps him pinned with one hand like that, but uses the other to wrap hand around him, pulling up and down torturously slow. Shishido feels his back bow and his mouth drop open so he can pant for air and realizes that it is probably for the best that he never got to give Oshitari a blowjob, seeing as he's wet with need and Oshitari, too, judging by the tacky stickiness he leaves against the inside of his thigh as he humps his own cock against it.  
  
"Yuushi," he manages through gritted teeth. "Either you fuck me now, or I'm fucking you. Last chance."  
  
Oshitari hisses and shudders convulsively on 'fuck' and opens his mouth to gasp in air. Closer than Shishido realized. "Tsk. No talking," he manages after a few moments. "Bossy," he adds and releases Shishido's dick to dip his hand down lower, fingers searching. There's some probing, with Shishido squirming and blushing, and then Oshitari finds lube and manages to get a finger inside of him. It's strange. Not as amazing as he thought it to be. He kinda expected instant gratification of sorts, but it rather hurts and feels monumentally awkward and not very sexy from his point of view.  
  
Maybe it is not such a brilliant plan to speak up and inform Oshitari that this is his first time taking it. Never let anyone do this to him because… because…  
  
NO.  
  
He's  _not_  thinking about that.  
  
And he's really not thinking about it, suddenly, when Oshitari does a find a spot that seems to have 'instant gratification' tagged to it, if of the violent and almost maddening kind. Shishido yells in surprise and lurches forward over the stab of pleasure in his body, lifting Oshitari up with him as he does so.  
  
"Oh fuck," he whimpers, feeling his eyes grow wet under the sensation when Oshitari curls his fingers (fingers? when did  _that_  happen) and touches him there again. "Oh please!"  
  
"Now?" Oshitari asks, voice rough.  
  
"Now," Shishido insists and sucks in a heave of air when Oshitari obeys.  
  
Instantly.  
  
Slowly enough still, but Shishido really should have told Oshitari about still being  _new_  to this, but even now he's afraid that if he does Oshitari will see right through to the core of it and realize  _why_. It's a realization he does not need to see on Oshitari's face. Not while he's being fucked by him.  
  
Now, with Oshitari groaning low deep in his throat as he eases into him, sweat dripping off his face to land with a sting on his sensitive lips. He strokes the back of Oshitari's neck, almost mindlessly, to ease his own burning pain and to comfort the other, who's face is screwed up tight in effort to be gentle. Drawing a whistling breath through his teeth, as fast as his lungs can suck it in and expel it, he feels his own body give and adjust, taking Oshitari deeper until he's to the hilt.  
  
They touch each other's faces while they wait for his body to relent, to stop fighting it, with him taking a drop of sweat from Oshitari's upper lip. His thumb smudges it away, makes the skin of Oshitari's lip drag along with the movement and his own hair is being combed back from his forehead, wet with exertion. Oshitari gleams under the haze of yellow streetlight and looks quite good there, bend over Shishido with his dark hair curtaining around his face.  
  
He wears a silver necklace, Shishido notices, with a small key strung onto it, the kind that might fit into a diary. It swings and winks silver at him and for a moment, a horrible, terrible moment, it is not a key.  
  
"Move," he chokes out, heart clawing at his throat.  
  
"You're still not-"  
  
"Move, Yuushi, dammit! MOVE,  _please_."  
  
Oshitari mouths an oath and rocks his hips.  
  
It hurts, more than he thought it would, but he lets it happen, takes the pain and bares his teeth at it, until Oshitari is there and easing his legs up higher, draping over his forearms and fuck, YES, there's the instant gratification again. Oshitari knows what he's doing. He sees the pain, the pleasure, and angles himself, knees shifting and lifting his legs even higher, until the pain ebbs under the sudden force of the pleasure. He never thought it could feel like this, too.  
  
It's good.  
  
It's unbelievable.  
  
It's hard merciless heat inside of him, breaking him into tiny pieces and muscles working under his hands as Oshitari pounds into him. The bed shakes with it, and Shishido reaches for the metals bars at the headboard with one hand, while the other stays to feel movement of Oshitari's canting hips, feeling how it rolls in a smooth confident wave from back to thighs.  
  
He knows he's flushed, all the way down his chest and belly, knows his mouth and lips are dark and bruised. His hair sticks wet at his temples and his eyes burn and it is good, so damn good, and even better when Oshitari finds his cock to stroke him in tandem.  
  
That's what he needs. Their hands grabbing at each other, undignified, and their groans being smudged sloppily into their open, licking kisses and the needy rising of his own body to meet Oshitari's, to make each jab of that cock into him that little much sharper.  
  
At the very end, Oshitari fishes for both his hands and laces their fingers as he pins them way up above Shishido's head, not brutally, but coaxing him to stretch out his torso as Oshitari leans down close to him. Shishido never knew he was this flexible, with his knees almost to his own shoulders and Oshitari bodily resting on him and catching friction on his abandoned cock with his stomach instead. He's lightheaded and just breathing at Oshitari as the other suckles at his lips, nuzzling their faces together and crashing over him like the waves of the ocean smoothing in a steady lick up a beach.  
  
It's the letting himself surrender and the sincere affection in Oshitari's kisses that does it for him. He cries, an almost pained, shocked sound, as he comes, body arching up into Oshitari and he can feel his blood boil and his muscles going taut, body clenching down hard around Oshitari.  
  
Who comes too.  
  
Beautifully at that.  
  
So honest and sincere and all for him.  
  
In that moment, they are them, Shishido Ryou and Oshitari Yuushi, with nobody else between them.  
  
It is glorious and liberating and they both breathe, for real, after so long of being smothered.  
  
Like honey lit on fire, it feels like when he comes, if that honey were lead, too, heavy and pinning his hips into a shock of feeling. And it feels like that after, too, more smoldering and sedate, but not gone, when Oshitari kisses him, sobbing at his own aftermath.  
  
They lie boneless, sticky come and sweat spreading out between them, and Shishido can't believe he came hard enough to nearly touch his own neck. Oshitari confirms what Shishido suspected all along: he's a sap. His eyes grow large and swimming, while his hands flicker reverently up and down his heaving body.  
  
"Yuushi," he grits out.  
  
"You're so beautiful," Oshitari says.  
  
Shishido wants to hit him, but he's too boneless to do anything about it. So he accepts a smear of a kiss instead.  
  
His mouth aches.  
  
As does his ass. Especially when Oshitari eases out of him. He hisses, and Oshitari kisses his knees and shins as he lowers them off his shoulders. Shishido feels a strange stab of disappointment when he realizes they haven't been careful. Sure, they were horny as hell and sure, they know each other, but still… Dammit.  
  
It is a worry for tomorrow. One more hurdle won't matter to the already towering heap of them.  
  
That having been thought, no tomorrow either. It's just Yuushi and him, who smells great post-coital, all sweaty and musky and strong arms hugging him.  
  
Oshitari's such a sap.  
  
He finds he kind of likes it. He finds that he likes feeling like he was the best thing ever and he finds that he likes Oshitari's large, cupping hands on his own body. He finds that he likes being murmured sweet nothingness at and finds that he likes being needed, for real, at long last. Whatever the reasons.


	2. Part 2

They have sex until Shishido can't stand it anymore.  
  
In reality one and a half hour blurs into a whole night of fucking each other numb, but it takes barely the aforementioned time for Oshitari to do him twice and then even allow Shishido to take him, until they both hurt too much with pleasure.  
  
It was past four in the morning when Oshitari first slid his dick inside of him, and it is not even six when they collapse a third time, Shishido draped over Oshitari's back.  
  
The sun is rising, pale and milky yellow, bathing the room with honest and truthful light.  
  
They roll to their sides, Oshitari clinging at him and Shishido smothering his face against the sweaty skin of Oshitari's chest. Besides the really good sex he remembers barely anything of the last hour and then some. He's emptied himself, literally and figuratively onto and into Oshitari, and he's a clean slate.  
  
He's calm.  
  
Oshitari is sun-kissed skin and dark hair against him. His lashes are ridiculously long and almost girly, but utterly captivating on his cheekbones. He's all long, tired limbs holding Shishido and warm, dripping skin plastered against his.  
  
Shishido lies there, breathing and hurting.  
  
He's given this part of himself to Oshitari.  
  
Because there was nobody else to give it to.  
  
Shishido lies there, body thrumming in the aftermath of his sex with Oshitari and realizes that this is the full stop. But above all, he finally realizes how _gone_  everything truly is.  
  
And it aches when he discovers that one small, tiny and sneaky corner of his heart still nursed that hope that one day he'd feel like this, as replete as he feels now, but happier, and there would have been a cross instead of a key and light, impossible fair hair instead of inky black and a body so large and broad holding his that the world could be ending and he'd believe himself to be safe.  
  
But it isn't.  
  
And Shishido finally realizes that it won't ever be.  
  
With that, his chest heaves and shudders.  
  
"Ryou?" Oshitari murmurs, sleepily.  
  
Shishido finds his cheeks wet, suddenly, his mouth not laughing as he thought it was and his chest hitching.  
  
He's crying.  
  
Finally.  
  
These twelve years with no final closure, the continued hoping and worse,  _believing_ , that what he felt for Choutarou couldn't have been one-sided. How is it possible for only one person to generate feelings the way he does, all by himself, while Choutarou steps down a path that doesn't even run parallel with his own no longer?  
  
So he cries.  
  
Oshitari hugs him, touches his back, pets his hair. "You gave up on him," he whispers, almost disbelieving.  
  
Shishido grieves. For twelve years of his life spend wanting and staying empty, with the person he loves slipping from his fingers just as elusively as he came into Shishido's life. He can't believe he jealously kept one final part of himself, one speck of remaining purity, to offer to the person he loved more than he loved himself, or tennis, and guarded it until he felt dull and foolish.  
  
Oshitari deserved it, at least. He was there for Shishido and reached back with as much emotion as he did. So why does he feel like he's betrayed Choutarou, when Choutarou is somewhere far away, probably waking up to the kiss of sunlight with a pretty woman in his arms.  
  
"Ryou. Oh,  _Ryou_ ," Oshitari murmurs into his hair. "Choutarou doesn't realize what he's missing."  
  
"Shut up," Shishido sobs.  
  
"I always thought it was mutual. The way he talked about you, the way he arranged his life around you, the way he  _looks_  at you."  
  
"Stop," Shishido begs. "Enough. Twelve years, Yuushi. So  _please_ , fuck, shut up-"  
  
Oshitari rubs his back, eases the sobs out through his shoulders. Kisses the tears on Shishido's cheeks. "Sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. I just wanted to let you know that you weren't the only one who believed in what was between Choutarou and y-"  
  
"Stop it!" he moans. "I don't want to hear it. It's over."  
  
"Sorry," Oshitari murmurs again, and holds him close.  
  
Shishido cries and shudders and feels something inside of him whither and die.  
  
***  
  
Oshitari is a little to good to be true.  
  
As in: he seems to know what Shishido needs.  
  
He wakes up alone.  
  
No awkward morning after, no stilted motions of cleaning off and getting dressed. No having to see Oshitari in bed with him, not having to realize he shared his body with Oshitari, and not Choutarou.  
  
No bazillionth breakdown.  
  
Shishido is alone in the sex-stained sheets, with no obligation of having to dig up empty words.  
  
It's past nine.  
  
The sun is up.  
  
Shishido realizes he reeks like floor of a porn shop with come plastered to his belly and like sweat and lethal home-brewed alcohol and tears, dammit. _Tears_ , of all things. His own or Oshitari's, it has ceased to matter.  
  
There's only his boxers on the ground, through which Oshitari sucked at him, he remembers, when they feel damp on his skin.  
  
Armed in only those, he drags himself into the main living area where he finds Oshitari mutilating  _eggs_ , of all easy things to cook.  
  
"Shower?" he asks and nods when Oshitari points to a towel stacked out for him on the living room table. Shishido sees his mobile phone there (not to mention the rest of his clothes), screen pulsing like mad, showing fifty-six missed calls.  
  
Not now.  
  
"Turn down the heat," Shishido tells Oshitari instead. "You're burning them!"  
  
"Yessir," Oshitari says, saluting at him.  
  
 _Ass_.  
  
Shishido shakes his head and goes to shower.  
  
If it weren't for the void in his chest, it would have been a nice morning.  
  
He's gotten laid and is relaxed in a way his own hand hasn't managed in ages. Oshitari is wonderful about it, not ignoring what happened between them, but keeping it to light teasing and hints, playful and friendly.  
  
Shishido is beyond relieved for that; that their friendship didn't receive a nasty come-stained dent.  
  
His body feels glorious, the ache of loneliness lifted from it, though his lips sting and his behind aches. That, at least, was worth it.  
  
So he feels freshly sexed up, easy and confident in how desirable he can be and cared for, even, when Oshitari tousles his shower-damp hair and chuckles at his scowl.  
  
But he never realized how big a part of him Choutarou was. Now that he's let him go, too late to heal himself, he feels half a person. Choutarou was his life, the pleasing of him, the selfless loving of him and now that is gone.  
  
Does he have Oshitari, now?  
  
With his large, knowing hands and the steady throb of his hips?  
  
Does he want Oshitari, now, if he has him?  
  
Shishido can't tell.  
  
He's battered and confused, only manages to feel like himself when they go to see Kuri.  
  
The dog is frantic. She jumps and whines and wiggles, licking at his face while her butt lurches from left to right with her wagging. Praising her for having been so good all night, he walks into the kitchen with the dog on his heels. She's too distracted to eat, worried over his absence, overjoyed at his return. Oshitari's presence adds yet another factor to the mess, because she wants to jump and slobber at him, too, because,  _hello,_  visitor and that always merits the production of extra saliva.  
  
So he leashes her up and takes her down for a walk. Alone. Or she'll soil herself in her enthusiasm. Oshitari doesn't complain. He suspects Oshitari is having a peachy time raiding his fridge anyway. Glutton.  
  
Kuri keeps tripping him up, because she really needs to take a piss, but also so very badly wants to go and sit on his feet and press herself against his legs. Brown soulful doggy eyes gaze up at him adoringly.  
  
Shishido smiles, loving this stupid, spazzy dog too much to be healthy.  
  
Thinking about 'loving' flicks with natural ease to loving Choutarou and then, ridiculously, about how Kuri was a present from him.  
  
Just the two of them, surrounded by a sad little amount of carton boxes, no table yet, just Shishido's bed and pillows. Take-out eaten on said bed, spilling enough food to shame a kindergarten, because he didn't even have any pans, pots or utensils and owned only one plate. A bottle of wine and a fantastic night and suddenly a large, red box that  _moved_.  
  
 _I never forgot you told me you wanted a dog when you got your own place, Shishido-san. I hope you like her._  
  
And how he'd liked her: a big brown ball of squirming puppy that had been a present from a person who'd only have had to say  _one, two, three, die_  and Shishido's have rolled over and did it.  
  
  
God.  
  
His life in a nutshell.  
  
Shishido shakes his head.  
  
***  
  
Just as he's shouldering the door open to his apartment, he can hear the unfamiliar tune of a mobile phone starting to play. Unleashing Kuri, he walks after the wagging dog into the kitchen, where Oshitari is devouring some pudding Shishido left there (and fears is kinda beyond the point of being good to eat, though Oshitari doesn't seem to find anything wrong with it) while he answers his phone.  
  
"Moshi moshi?" He mumbles around a spoonful of pudding. "Oh, Atobe."  
  
God, Shishido envies him so. damned. much. If he had to answer an unexpected phone call of Choutarou's he'd probably cramp up, verbally and physically. Oshitari sounds like he always does: cool, distant and vaguely amused, as though he's enjoying a joke at your expense.  
  
"Hm. Is that so? Yes, I believe I recall something of that. Oops." Oshitari licks at the spoon, gets pudding on his nose, like a big kid.  
  
Shishido leans against the fridge and frowns, wondering what it is about when Oshitari looks his way almost thoughtfully.  
  
"Yes, oops. Be there as soon as I finish my pudding," at which he hangs up, absentmindedly puts his phone to the side before shoveling another mouthful down.  
  
"So?" Shishido prompts when Oshitari just makes happy smacking noises. "What was it."  
  
"We were supposed to meet him half an hour ago," Oshitari says, wiping the pudding off the tip of his nose with his thumb, before sticking it in his mouth to suck it off. As though absolutely starved.  
  
Shishido sighs. Fuck, he forgot all about that. They were supposed to meet up to discuss their various tasks at Atobe's wedding. It is, for once, something they all agreed to do. Atobe wanted his friends, who know him better, to organize some aspects of the feast so it'd be more personal.  
  
No matter if said wedding is in a year from now.  
  
Okay.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He so isn't ready for this.  
  
Least of all seeing Choutarou there and walking over to him to sit next to him (cause that's what they alway do) and hear his report on how the latest chapter in mission Miki went. And there'll be Atobe being a clown as usual and getting on his nerves. Worst of all he'll be there with Oshitari, which is not so bad per se, but now adds a whole new dimension to the 'Shishido might just have a mental breakdown'-arc.  
  
Plus, he'd kinda been planning to kick Oshitari out soonish, so he could crawl into bed with Kuri tucked up against him and sleep for possibly a whole century.  
  
Of course, no such luck. Things can't -and won't- go easy for him, it just seems.  
  
Groaning, he rubs at his eyes. "Aw fuck," he mumbles.  
  
Oshitari nods a little, contemplates his spoon before saying quietly. "My feelings exactly."  
  
Shishido remembers Oshitari telling him he was Atobe's best man. No surprises what  _his_  tasks will entail.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
He pats Oshitari's shoulder. "C'mon. Let's do this shit."  
  
Oshitari sighs, lays the spoon to the side, "I suppose."  
  
***  
  
They arrive an hour too late.  
  
Shishido knows he looks like how he feels: exhausted. He realizes Oshitari looks exactly the same. Belatedly he wonders what their friends will think when the two of them arrive together, both looking like death warmed over, Shishido with swollen lips and Oshitari with a bruise high on his neck, or whether they will think anything of it at all. Finding himself too emotionally spend to care about that on top of his already vast ocean of worries, he doesn't say or do a thing about it. He doubts anybody would even ever suspect of Oshitari seriously wanting him in his bed, if they actually are aware he isn't nearly half the skirt-chaser he seems to be. Heck, Shishido surely wouldn't have expected it if he wasn't able to feel the strain of how much Oshitari liked him in his bed right this moment.  
  
A guard admits them and informs them that Atobe and his guests have retreated to the gazebo in the rose garden for lunch.  
  
So Shishido and Oshitari trudge on, bypassing the house to walk through luxuriously tended gardens. Underfoot white gravel crunches. Late summer blooms produce a heavy, cloying scent. Beyond their best, now. Soon everything here will be decked out in gold, dressed for autumn.  
  
They happen upon Jiroh and Gakuto kicking a football between the two off them on a large stretch of grass vacant of any lawn ornaments.  
  
"Whoa, are you two in for it deep," Jiroh says, kneeing the ball up in the air and bouncing it.  
  
Gakuto comes trotting up, too. Exclaims, "You're never gonna guess what happened… There was this huge-" he falters, squints at them. "Hey," he says. And then, "Holy-"  
  
Oshitari cuts him off. "Must have been riveting to have you worked up like that," he says.  
  
Why didn't Shishido just  _know_  that if any of their friends would be able to tell, it would have been Gakuto. A) because he's Shishido childhood buddy, b) has been Oshitari's doubles partner for four years and c) has a nose that sniffs out all your dirty details and nags at you to spill them until the only thing you are capable  _of_  is spilling them or murdering Gakuto with your bare hands (of which Shishido prefers the latter, but isn't quite ready waste his ass in jail for it to be worth the satisfaction).  
  
Shishido should know. He only ever told Gakuto, in actual words, with the actual big four letter L-word in it, just how he felt about Choutarou. Solely because Gakuto was capable of drawing the blood from under his fingernails to get him to say it and it was easier for Shishido to comply and do so, than needing to see that particular look on Gakuto's face again. To his credit, he never told another soul, though Shishido did such a shoddy job on hiding his feelings that the whole team knew by end of high school anyway.  
  
Besides his dense Choutarou, that is. Smart though he otherwise is.  
  
Anyway.  
  
Gakuto opens his mouth. And not to answer Oshitari's comment. Far from. But Oshitari levels one look at him and his jaw grudgingly closes again.  
  
"Wow," Shishido says mildly. "You gotta learn me how to do that."  
  
"Got to have been born with the power, I am afraid," Oshitari says as he pats Gakuto's hair as they walk on towards the rose garden.  
  
Jiroh and Gakuto follow on their heels.  
  
What most people would understand under gazebo, translates with Atobe's touch added to: a really fucking big ornate pile of kitsch, with white climbing roses tangling up to the heavily embellished roof. It's almost as big as Shishido's apartment and probably has more reliable facilities at that.  
  
Taki sees them coming. "They're finally here," he says over his shoulder to Atobe. He's nibbling at a croissant with dark marmalade smeared between it.  
  
A right tea party.  
  
Shishido wishes he could turn his back on all this madness, but finds himself mounting the steps and stealing Taki's croissant while he does so.  
  
"So what's up?" he says around a bite of croissant. "I heard there was so- _HOLY_ -" he dissolves into splutters around the flaky stuff in his mouth, starts coughing. Taki absentmindedly pats him on the back. It takes him a while to keep from dying a death by pastry right there and then. Jiroh joins in with the patting.  
  
Besides him, Oshitari makes a throaty sound of surprise. That's it.  
  
Shishido dies some more, drops the croissant in the process, tears up from the coughing, before he can finally manage a choked: "What the HELL happened to your face?!" to Choutarou and goes on to add a, "Who did that?! I'll fucking kill them!"  
  
Choutarou makes a wry face and winces as the bruise high on his cheekbone pulls into shape with it.  
  
Hiyoshi jerks his chin at Shishido. "You will try," he mumbles.  
  
"Wakashi?" Shishido hears his voice warp strangely around the name, his shock making it high-pitched. "I thought… thought you two were  _friends_."  
  
Nodding, Hiyoshi tosses a dark look at Choutarou, before saying, "We are. But Miki is my friend, too."  
  
The name flies out to whack Shishido around the ears. He wants to ask why, how, what, but his brain is still recuperating from the fact that Hiyoshi delivered a hit so vicious Choutarou's cheek is blue-purple and his eye a little puffy. Man, he'd take on Hiyoshi if he could -just out of principle of the thing- but as badly as he hates to admit it: Hiyoshi would totally end him. Better not mess with the guy who runs a dojo. Besides, this is something else entirely. If Hiyoshi was some random jackass Shishido would have cheerfully tried to roughen him up a little, stronger than him or not. It wouldn't have mattered, but having Choutarou's back would have. But it is Hiyoshi and Shishido is missing a big fucking piece of the picture, judging by Choutarou's definitely guilty look.  
  
What the hell.  
  
Thankfully Oshitari has always been more collected, not to mention eloquent, than him. Though his most eloquent is now: "We are confused and hung over. Please use small words."  
  
There's a thick silence.  
  
Gakuto opens his mouth to deliver what would have undoubtedly been a very graphic -not to mention X-rated- account of the events in question, but Taki covers his mouth without even having to look. Everybody else is looking either anxiously, thoughtfully, expectantly or angrily (in Hiyoshi's case) at Choutarou.  
  
Who looks out on the garden, eyes distant. He looks drained and… sad. So damned sad.  
  
Shishido's heart wrings in fear. "What's going on?" he whispers. "Choutarou? What's wrong?"  
  
Slowly his head turns to look back at him. They stare at each other.  
  
"I messed up," Choutarou says, words cold and limp, like socks hanging on a wash line.  
  
Shishido feels something like cold dread bead on his face as the pit of his stomach turns to icy slush."What?"  
  
"Miki… it's over. I- We've broken up."  
  
The first few heartbeats after hearing this, Shishido isn't really alive.  
  
"Ah-hah," Oshitari says softly a step to his right, almost as if he just heard a confirmation to something he already knew.  
  
Shishido barely hears it. He's turning to ice all over, his lips feel bloodless. His eyes burn and his heart starts to pound, painfully. "Hang on," he manages, holding up a hand. His fingers tremble. His voice shakes. "You what?"  
  
Choutarou looks down to his hands. They lie in his lap and tangle over and over. His knuckles are white. His fingers shake even worse than Shishido's. He swallows, wets his lips, but says quite clearly. "We broke up. It was my fault, I-" but he splutters to a shocked, not to mention injured, halt.  
  
Because Shishido is starting to laugh. Loudly. Manically. Louder and louder, until he even can't get air sucked into his lungs for him to breathe. He's choking.  
  
"Ryou," Oshitari says, almost warningly.  
  
It just makes Shishido laugh harder. His chest and throat burns and tears runs down his cheeks from the strain on his body. His heart rattles in protest at the lack of air.  
  
"He's finally cracked," Gakuto murmurs, but his voice shows nothing but fellow feeling. Besides Oshitari, he's the only one who might even begin to guess at the origin of his fit of insanity.  
  
Shishido laughs, shudders and lurches forward, because he needs to breathe, dammit, he's going to pass out if he can't take in a lungful of oxygen, but everybody just keeps staring at him, dumbfounded, making tiny motions towards him and yet powerless to stop him.  
  
It is, in the end, Kabaji who pulls through. He moves from where he was standing besides Atobe, walks over, slaps him. Hard. Shishido rocks back into Taki, who automatically steadies him, catching his arms. The slap ends the horrible sound with a sharp skin-on-skin smack, leaves five heartbeats of silence in its wake and then there's a heaving gasp of him breathing.  
  
His face is wet.  
  
He's panting as though he just took on Seigaku's Golden Pair. He's lightheaded, everything swims. If Taki wasn't holding his elbow, he'd probably stumble back and topple into the rose bushes at the foot of the gazebo.  
  
"Thanks," he manages to wheeze at Kabaji.  
  
Kabaji nods.  
  
And fuck it, it is clear there's even a  _third_  person who gets it. Everybody is fucking psychic. Or, you know, simply observant. Whatever. What does it even matter.  
  
Shishido sniffs, mops at his cheeks with the edge of his sleeve. Even his face feels numb, as though it is a flesh mask that does not match the bones of his skull. He doesn't look at Choutarou. Enough. His sense of self has been pulled into every kind of direction last night, has gotten shredded and torn, stitched together and then torn again, before finally settling, somewhat, and now  _this_. Enough. No more.  
  
"This was nice," he manages. His voice sounds thick and abused, croaks a little. "We should do this again. I'm… going home. Fuck."  
  
Nobody stops him as he makes a wobbly turn. Taki carefully releases his elbow once he realizes that he will go down the steps and leave, even if he has to bodily drag Taki to do so.  
  
The garden dances. He sees tiny white pinpricks swimming over his vision. He's drained. He doubts that after this he'll ever be able to feel anything again. Ever.  
  
He wants to go home. He wants to put on a pair of comfy sweats and an oversized t-shirt, find his dog and curl up under the covers with her. He'll sleep and he'll wake up and then turn over and sleep again. Right now, that seems like the most achingly perfect thing for him to do.  
  
Bloods pounds between his ears. He's gonna have a major headache in a moment when, you know, the numbness leaves. His cheeks pull from the strain. Shishido pats at them, tried to hold his head steady as he lurches forwards along the gravel path. The pebbles blot together to make a white woolly blanket, reminding him once again of his desire to sleep. He wishes he'd come here by motorcycle, at least then he wouldn't have to drag himself safely through another twenty minute walk.  
  
Birds sing. The sun his warm, in a mellow, gentle sort of way.  
  
He's so tired.  
  
He wishes all the noise would stop, the damn birds, the leaves rusting, the pebbles grinding together as he steps on them, Choutarou calling his name-  
  
Wait.  
  
No. Fuck no.  
  
"Shishido-san!" he calls out, voice almost wild. Long loping strides eat up the distance between them. "Wait."  
  
Shishido turns, lifts an arm, palm out.  
  
Choutarou freezes, or tries to, but takes one last stumbling step to balance himself. His eyes are wide, uncomprehending, locked at the denial stamped onto Shishido's hand. The bruise on his face is livid in the clear daylight. It must hurt to talk. He must be hurting inside, too, because he lost Miki and fought with Hiyoshi. Whatever happened and whatever the reasons, Shishido knows he loved her. To lose her must've been painful. The heartbreak is etched onto his face. It must've been one hell of a night for him, too. Shishido sees this, but can't quite muster enough emotions to actually care right that moment. He's too tired. So.  
  
"If our friendship means anything at all to you, you're gonna turn your ass around and leave me be. Just, please. Not now," Shishido tells him, quite calmly. Almost distantly.  
  
"Shishido-san, I-"  
  
"No! Fuck, NO! Are you deaf? Leave! I  _can't_. Alright. Not now," Shishido barks out, regretting it instantly as his vocal cords burn.  
  
"But!"  
  
"Later," Shishido says and turns to walk away. He goes five paces and then comes up short. Because Choutarou says his name. His first name.  
  
"Ryou," Choutarou says, brokenly. " _Please_ , I-"  
  
Shishido spins, strides over to him. Shoves him. In his anger, he's more than strong enough to send Choutarou tripping back. Fuck, barely a minute ago he was doubting his capability of ever feeling anything again, ever. But Choutarou… just seems to  _wring_  the emotions out of him just by standing in his vicinity. Damn him! And he's not just angry, either. He's fucking enraged.  
  
"SHUT UP!" he snarls. "Don't you dare call me that now! Fuck you anyway! I tell you to leave me alone and you don't, I tell you I can't and you keep pushing?! Why? What's your problem anyway? Huh?"  
  
Never before has he seen such shock on Choutarou's face. This moment is something he can't properly give a place in his mental process. He doesn't get it. Why would he? Shishido has never, ever raised his voice to him in pure fury. Not to mention that as the person Choutarou knows him to be, he never would have laughed in the face of his rejection. But he just did. And now he's even laid a hand on him in his fit of pique.  
  
"You're angry," Choutarou says, voice trembling.  
  
"Angry?" Shishido throws his head back and scoffs. "Hah! I'm not angry, Ohtori. I'm fucking pissed off so bad that you had better stop pushing. Right now. I mean it. Turn around."  
  
Choutarou looks at him, almost thoughtfully. Then his shoulders square and his back straightens. Aw hell, no. Shishido knows that look. They call him the stubborn one, but Choutarou can be twice as bad when he puts his pretty little head to it.  
  
"No," he says.  
  
Fucking bastard.  
  
"Choutarou-" Shishido warns.  
  
"No, I'm not leaving. Not before you tell me why you are so angry or what's wrong."  
  
Shishido looks at him, lips parted and disbelieving. He almost starts laughing again, an eerie cackle bubbles over his teeth, but he clamps his jaw before it escalates. What's wrong? Everything and nothing is wrong. He's loved Choutarou for twelve years, unquestioningly. Stupidly, even. So badly that he actually allowed himself the pathetic and ridiculous notion of… keeping himself for Choutarou. Like some sort of virginity. Goddammit, the sheer idiocy of it. Yes, technically he's not and hasn't been since high school. He's has sex with both women and men.But what he allowed Oshitari to do to him barely a few hours ago was that last little part of him that he'd kept untouched. For Choutarou.  
  
Silly.  
  
Childish.  
  
Girlish.  
  
Stupid.  
  
And then Choutarou said he was gonna propose and Shishido gave that last part of himself to someone he trusted and cared for. Oshitari. He doesn't regret that. But he'll always regret that he can't ever give it to Choutarou.  
  
It wouldn't have mattered, despite whichever regrets he decided to chew on.  
  
But this…  
  
Shishido bares his teeth, narrows his eyes. "You know what? Let's make a deal. I'll tell you why I'm angry if you tell me how you messed up  _first_."  
  
He swore never to tell Choutarou. His friendship and respect was something he couldn't bare to lose. But after this? He's not sure how he feels about Choutarou after this. Even as just a friend. He might not mean to hurt him, but he has and Shishido deals with it how he knows to: offense.  
  
Choutarou frowns. His eyes are dark, almost solid, but for the barest glow of the darkest brown where the sun hits his eyes. He's grown to be a handsome man. Shockingly tall, lean yet broad shouldered, his face calm and kind, if distantly polite. His mouth is fuller than Shishido's, his face more chiseled. Still, his hair is whitish, strange against his dark brows and eyes. Shishido has always loved his rare true smiles and mobile hands, or the almost vulnerable manner he had in gesturing while he talked, sometimes touching a hand at his own throat, or chest. He's loved him for his steely will and smoldering sort of anger.  
  
It still does something to him, to see Choutarou's calmness give way to his own sort of outrage. It resonates with how he feels and is strangely comforting. If they never manage to be what they were before this, they can rely on their mutual anger to bond them forever after. Pretty fucking poetic, right?  
  
"That's hardly fair," Choutarou says, voice low.  
  
Shishido grins predatorily. "I didn't say it was." He cocks an eyebrow. "So?"  
  
Choutarou's lips go white at the challenge. "Fine. Deal."  
  
Crossing his arms, Shishido jerks his chin at him. "So tell me."  
  
"Now?" Choutarou asks. "Here? Can't we-"  
  
"Now."  
  
Choutarou glares at him.  
  
"I'm waiting."  
  
"I don't understand why you are so angry." Choutarou wonders aloud."Is it because you think badly of me? That I failed to be… to be good to her?"  
  
Shishido laughs, a bark of a sound.  
  
"I guess not," Choutarou murmurs. He sighs, cards a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to explain. I don't want to- you're going to think I'm insane."  
  
"Try me," Shishido sneers.  
  
For a while Choutarou seems to try and gather his thoughts, to mold his words and explanations into an acceptable speech. Shishido watches him do so, honestly curious. He really does wonder what could've gone wrong. Because, hell, Miki  _worshipped_  him. The marriage should've been in the bag. So what gives?  
  
"You weren't happy," Choutarou suddenly blurts.  
  
Shishido blinks.  
  
"I kept… thinking about it. You didn't want to tell me and nothing I ever did, even before yesterday, seemed to make it alright."  
  
Shishido blinks again, somewhat more slowly. What. is. this?  
  
"But you told me to go, so I did. I took Miki outside. I kept wishing I'd asked you whether you thought I should kneel, or something. I was so nervous. So I just kinda… asked her, point blank. I even dropped the ring."  
  
Okay, he's feeling kinda sorry for Choutarou. Cause that? That's kinda lame. Poor guy.  
  
"She asked me if… if… whether I-  _oh_." He looks away, biting at his lips. His right hand touches his solar plexus, just his fingertips, before flattening into a star on his chest.  
  
"What?" Shishido prompts, when nothing else is forthcoming.  
  
Choutarou looks to the side for a while longer, before slowly turning his head back towards him. "I lied, you know."  
  
"Excuse me?" Shishido splutters.  
  
"When I told you, back when, that I kissed her… I didn't." Choutarou's jaw works. "She kissed me."  
  
Shishido shrugs. "So?"  
  
"She liked me first. Not the other way around." He keeps staring at Shishido, almost (strange though it seems) insolently. "I liked someone else."  
  
For some reason his heart clenches and his throat constricts. He coughs, shrugs again. "So?" he echoes, almost viciously.  
  
Choutarou's eyes narrow. "I told her so. She was sad, but said I was stupid, too. So we agreed to be together. Eventually, Miki said, I would stop liking the other person and love only her. Because it didn't make any sense anyway."  
  
He can't explain why he feels like throwing up or like bolting. He doesn't want to hear the rest. He wants to leave. "You're not making any sense," he croaks.  
  
"I'm not. It never did," Choutarou admits. "But when I proposed, she asked if it meant I only loved her."  
  
There's an audible swallow.  
  
"She meant it as a joke," Choutarou whispers. "But I didn't answer, because I wasn't sure. So that's how she knew."  
  
With that, he stops talking. Looks at the ground. His grief at the loss of Miki seems to grip him again in that moment. His hands clench.  
  
Birds sing. The sun is sweet on their skin. Shishido sees the world tinted in warm hues of honey, smells grass and flowers and autumn. Such a nice day.  
  
"Knew what?" Shishido breathes. He barely dares to, but they have come this far.  
  
He thinks he knows the answer. The only, the most stupid, and completely illogical answer. Even he, now, isn't young enough anymore to be surprised at the truth. He's known Choutarou too long, has seen and heard just enough to finally tie the ends together, to connect the dots to show the final image of this pear-shaped, abstract reality.  
  
"That I never stopped loving you," Choutarou says.  
  
Even he knows that Shishido caught on halfway through. No more coaxing answers, playing tag through words. Only the final, exhausted truth.  
  
Shishido nods. "Right," he sighs. "Oh God."  
  
Choutarou smiles rather sadly. "Yes."  
  
"Just," Shishido gestures, knows he gone beyond angry and sad and insane and has ended here, on neutral ground. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"  
  
Choutarou shrugs. "What are the odds?"  
  
Shishido stares at him.  
  
Choutarou looks back.  
  
There's so much hope on his face that he seems utterly terrified at the prospect of it. Choutarou's naked then, bare and honest and Shishido understands so many things he never really got before. Because he didn't know Choutarou as well as he thought after all. Not well enough to know he was in love with him. So many hints and gestures got soaked up in the already overwhelming closeness of their friendship. Suddenly he even remembers a star-lit night and Choutarou's warm hand lifting his, to kiss his scabby knuckles. Friendship. Only, who would ever kiss his best friend's hand? Out of everybody, Gakuto is arguably Shishido's closest friend (not counting Choutarou and in fierce competition of Jiroh), but if anybody ever told him to kiss Gakuto's hand, strictly friendly, he'd have broken their nose.  
  
God.  
  
Fuck.  
  
This.  
  
This goddamn…  
  
This.  
  
Them.  
  
Choutarou clears his throat, takes a step closer. "What  _are_  the odds?" he says again, but now it is a question, not a rhetorical statement. A very specific question.  
  
Shishido swallows. His gaze darts around -bush, bee, stone, sand, cloud, bark,  _eyes_ , root, grass, eyes,  _eyes_ \- and stays. "Yes," he murmurs. Because what else can he say?  
  
"That's why you were angry," Choutarou says.  
  
"Yes," Shishido confirms.  
  
Choutarou nods. His eyes swim. "Oh," he chokes out.  
  
This should be the moment when they fall into each other's arms and kiss. Choutarou would take him home and they'd work everything out. But they've gone beyond that point. Shishido knows he has and suspects Choutarou has, too. Too many scars left by others.  
  
"This morning…" Choutarou murmurs. "Did you and…" -he closes his eyes- "Oshitari…"  
  
Shishido nods, says out loud, "Yes."  
  
He's still not sorry.  
  
"Oh," Choutarou's voice squeezes out of him. "The two of you… Are you two..."  
  
He's not explaining what happened. What occurred between him and Oshitari this morning is between them only. Choutarou has no part in it and never will have. He might have been the cause and it never would've been if it weren't for him. Still. Shishido might've given something up. But Oshitari gave something, and more, back. That's his. Theirs. They were  _them_ , he and Yuushi, in the end and that's something he's not sharing.  
  
But he does say, "No," somewhat more kindly.  
  
"Oh," Choutarou says, rather relieved.  
  
They look at each other. Now that Shishido knows how to interpret it, he can see the love in Choutarou's eyes. They were both blind.  
  
"Ryou." Choutarou suddenly bursts out, there's raw pain and shredding love in the name and so much need and wanting.  
  
Shishido takes a deep breath.  
  
  
"No," he says, again.  
  
  
He can see the word like a knife in Choutarou's heart. He sees how he lets him lose he, himself, on to top of Miki. Choutarou took this last, desperate bet to tell him, after losing everything else, and lost this, too.  
  
  
They're even now.  
  
  
Choutarou's cheeks are wet. No sobbing or sniffling, just a quiet leaking of tears and heartburn.  
  
Shishido watches him hurt and can't bear it. He thought he'd feel better to see him ache the way he did, thought he'd feel a sense of relief if his heartbreak was as fundamental as his had been. It doesn't make anything better. It hurts him, too, and surprisingly much. As bad, or even worse, as how he felt about his own heartbreak this night.  
  
So takes a step closer, takes Choutarou's limp right hand. Who freezes, because he didn't expect it, didn't see it through his tears. Shishido laces their fingers.  
  
"I need time," Shishido says.  
  
There's a wet inhalation, voice in the breath. "I can give you that," he answers.  
  
Shishido smiles.  
  
***  
  
About an hour later Shishido has dug up his most worn, droopy and faded sweats and a t-shirt that gapes almost indecently at his neck and shoulders. Kuri is curled under the comforter, waiting for him to join her. The woman of his life, that dog. It's half past two in the afternoon. He doesn't care. He's going to sleep this off and nobody is going to stop him.  
  
So it figures that as soon as he crawls under the sheets, the bell rings.  
  
No way. He's not getting up. He sticks his head under the pillow.  
  
But the fucker at the other side of his door keeps buzzing out stupid medleys, gratingly cheerful. Goddammit. Shishido is going to absolutely  _end_  the person molesting his doorbell.  
  
He stumbles out of bed, wraps the comforter around him like a cape and stomps to the door. Yanks it open, yells: "STOP RINGING MY GODDAMN DOORBELL YOU SHI- Oh."  
  
"Hello to you, too," Oshitari says. "Am I interrupting?"  
  
Shishido blinks. "My nap, yes. What do you want?"  
  
Oshitari looks at him. "Can I come in?"  
  
"Yuushi," Shishido sighs. "I'm exhausted, man. Can't I have a break?"  
  
"It's only for a moment," Oshitari simply says.  
  
Grumbling, Shishido opens the door wider. "Fine. Just stay outta my fridge, alright?"  
  
"Cruel," Oshitari says, as he steps out of his shoes. "Nice cape by the way."  
  
"Fuck you," Shishido replies flat-out and realizes what Oshitari's answer is going to be when he smirks. "Don't say it. I warn you. Don't."  
  
Oshitari chuckles and dumps his ass on a chair at Shishido's rickety kitchen table.  
  
"Tea?" Shishido asks him, resigned to hearing him out if he wants to get rid of him soonish.  
  
"Please," Oshitari says.  
  
So that's what he does, cooking up water and measuring out tea leaves. Kuri walks into the kitchen with clicking paws, eyes questioning. He gives her a treat and then takes the cups to the table, settling himself across from Oshitari.  
  
"So what is it?" he asks after a minute of two of blowing on their steaming cups.  
  
After a long sip, ending in an appreciative hum, Oshitari puts down his cup and says, "I'm going to regret asking you this, seeing as how you reacted to it last time. Still." He sighs. "Ryou. Are you alright?"  
  
What a question.  
  
Shishido rubs at his face, palms damp with steam that rises from the porcelain. "I don't know," he answers through his fingers. "I'm tired."  
  
There's a little huff. Oshitari turns the mug between his fingers, takes a small sip. "I can't understand why you didn't say 'yes'."  
  
That makes him straighten up. "Yuushi. You fucking  _bastard_. You were eavesdropping?"  
  
And what does it say about his energy reserves that he doesn't even have the sizzle in him left to try and behead Oshitari with his tea spoon. Maybe at a later date. He'll make a memo of it. Fucking ass.  
  
"I thought you were going to kill him," Oshitari says. He's not joking. He's dead serious. "I followed because I expected I was going to have to pull you off him. And not for committing naughty deeds upon his person."  
  
"I kinda shoved him," Shishido admits. He's not proud of that. "But I could never hurt him, Yuushi."  
  
"I realized that after." Oshitari relents. "But you were not yourself."  
  
"Haven't been myself for the past twenty four hours," Shishido mutters.  
  
There's silence then. They measure each other up, studying one other's expression. Shishido wants to ask him to leave, he feels himself dangerously close to face-planting on the table. Kuri sits pressed against his leg, feeling his exhaustion and offering him comfort. Her ear is soft and silky between his fingers.  
  
"Why not yes?" Oshitari presses.  
  
Shishido makes an angry snort. "Listen. You said it yourself. I gave up on him right then and there. I let it go. It was like taking a breath of air. And then everything goes fucked up and suddenly he's telling me he's been in love with me for as long as I have been with him. It's not that I don't love him anymore. I do. Just, it's too much. Not to mention I just jumped into bed with you and he broke up a six year long relationship. He's all emotionally fucked over."  
  
Oshitari blinks. "Is that what you are afraid of? That he doesn't know what he's doing?"  
  
"I don't wanna be rebound guy," Shishido whispers.  
  
There's a soft laugh. "Ryou. You are missing the point.  _She_  was rebound girl. You are the real deal. Nothing is going to take that away."  
  
"Why are you advocating his side?" Shishido asks, frowning. "You don't make sense."  
  
At that Oshitari does something Shishido didn't think him capable of: he seems insecure, eyes darting to the side, gaze sliding over the table top and out towards the window. After a moment, he turns back to him. All masks are gone. Oshitari Yuushi is terribly human when backed up by pure honesty. "Maybe I just want you to be happy," he says.  
  
Oh.  
  
"Yuushi."  
  
The mask is back. He smirks. "Shush. Don't say a thing, we all know how good you are at saying the wrong things at times like these. Don't screw it up."  
  
Shishido makes a wry face.  
  
"Just say yes next time. I know that's what you want," Oshitari murmurs.  
  
"I'm emotionally fucked over as well," Shishido tells him, carding both hands through his hair. He really doesn't know anymore. The situation is too volatile, too surreal to build bricks of hope on. "We'll see."  
  
Oshitari smiles. "You'll say yes."  
  
Shishido sighs, but doesn't say no. Then he smiles, too.  
  
  
  
  


_-omake-_

  
  
  
  
"C'mon, man, get it together," Shishido mumbles, patting Oshitari's shoulder.  
  
Oh wow, haven't they done this before? Shishido smiles, shakes his head a little at the memory.  
  
Oshitari isn't really crying, though. But he's raw and hurting and there's jack shit Shishido can do about it. They're standing near the kitchen, people carrying platters laden with food can be seen hurrying to and fro at the end of the hallway. A deserted stretch of halls and empty chambers is all they found admits the chaos. Even then they can hear laughter and clicking crystal and music. The party is in full swing.  
  
"You're the one to talk," Oshitari sighs. "We're not at Choutarou's wedding, are we?"  
  
Shishido's hand slides lifelessly down Oshitari's arm and falls limply to his side. "I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry."  
  
Oshitari chuckles. "What are you apologizing for?"  
  
A shrug. "Just. You know. Not fair."  
  
"It's not about right and wrong, Ryou," he flaps a hand. "But thanks. I'm good."  
  
Picturing himself in Oshitari's place brushes too close to a nightmare wound of an almost reality. Just a few hours ago Oshitari smiled and nodded and made witty speech and gave his blessings. And gave a big ugly chunk of his heart away in the progress.  
  
He's far from good.  
  
Nevertheless in five minutes they will go out there again and Oshitari will be as he always is: smug, clever and utterly irritating. In five minutes from now Shishido will probably be wanting to throttle him with whatever is closest on hand. If that one night between them had never happened, he'd never have known just how well Oshitari can close off his heart. Perhaps a bit too well.  
  
Practice, Shishido supposes, and hates the truth of that.  
  
"Let's go," Oshitari says, looking almost his old infuriating self again. "Before your keeper decides to come looking for you."  
  
Yup, he's back. Shishido grinds his teeth. "He's not my keeper."  
  
"Keep telling yourself that," Oshitari smirks. "He still doesn't know how to act around me."  
  
"Can you blame him?" Shishido points out. "I mean-"  
  
"We fucked each other silly?" he cuts in, just as they walk into the rush of the party again.  
  
Shishido hits him. Hard.  
  
"Ouch! I'm being abused," Oshitari says. "Atobe, save me."  
  
Atobe looks up from where he is contemplating the choice of snacks. Even Shishido has to admit that he looks great. White tuxedo, lavender cravat, delicate gloves on his hands. With his bride by his side they look like a king and queen. He tosses his head and saunters over. "Shishido. Don't hit my best man. There will be repercussions."  
  
"What are you gonna do, huh?" Shishido scoffs. "Make me run laps? See me tremble."  
  
"Don't be a brat," Atobe says and proceeds with coolly dismissing him in favor of Oshitari. "Yuushi, there's someone I want you to meet-" and he takes Oshitari's elbow and steers him into the fray.  
  
Watching them walk away, Shishido sighs. No happy endings there.  
  
"Ryou."  
  
He jumps a little. "Don't creep up on me!" he hisses.  
  
Choutarou smiles, but it is rather forced. "Is everything… alright?"  
  
Almost he laughs. Who knew his partner had such a possessive streak in him? Shishido would be lying if he said it didn't flatter him immensely. Nevertheless, Choutarou is great about it. Despite his natural jealousy, he does trust Shishido. Completely. Shishido made it a point to meet up with Oshitari if he wanted to, because if Choutarou couldn't have faith in their delicate re-growing connection then, he never would have. They pulled through.  
  
He shrugs at Choutarou. What can he say? He got his happy ending and Oshitari didn't. "Not fair, is all," he murmurs.  
  
"I know," Choutarou answers and touches the back of his hand.  
  
It's a sweet and promising gesture, the idea of a kiss on the tips of his fingers.  
  
It gives him goosebumps. His heart starts to race.  
  
Choutarou waited for him. A whole year.  
  
It was for the best. The time was spend rebuilding the sense of loss within each other, finding steady footing on how to deal with each other. Shishido suspects that if that one night had gone differently, that he had not wound up in Oshitari's arms and bed, and Choutarou would've walked up to him and said that his relationship with Miki was over… they'd have probably gotten together right of the bat and -or so Shishido suspects- have destroyed each other within a few month's time. The way he loved Choutarou then wasn't healthy. It had been edged with pain and sadness and desperation.  
  
A year later, they've become even closer friends than they ever were before. A year later, and Shishido has fallen in love with Choutarou all over again for all of the old reasons, but also a whole set of new ones.  
  
At first, he didn't really believe.  
  
He does now. Completely.  
  
Tilting his head, he says, "I saw some empty chambers back there."  
  
Biting his lower lip, Choutarou blushes a little. But he also nods.  
  
  
  
Fifteen minutes later, with Choutarou's arms around him and his mouth slanting over his, kissing him over and over as they try to undress each other, with his heart racing and the both of them laughing as they get tangled up and trip over each other, and the two of them fitting together like two halves of a whole, Shishido thinks:  
  
  
 _This might not be the perfect day of my life._  
  
 _But with Choutarou by my side?_  
  
  
 _Pretty damn close._  
  
  


_-fin-_


End file.
